Page 151 of Roulette Rodeo
"That's not romance. That's manipulation."
"Thank you!" The words burst out of me. "That's what I've been thinking the entire time, but I bet tonight everyone will talk about how tragic and romantic it is, how she was trapped by society's expectations, how the alphas should have just agreed to share her from the beginning."
Pure blasphemy.
"Sharing only works if everyone actually wants it," Rafe says quietly, and I know we're not talking about the book anymore. "If it's forced, if someone's just going along to keep the peace or keep from losing... that's not a pack. That's a hostage situation."
The weight of Sophia hangs between us, unspoken but present.
"Is that what it was like?" I ask carefully, daring to associate it with what he dealt with in the past. "With her?"
It’s a risky assumption, and I try not to feel bad about asking, but it’s a topic I know we’ll have to discuss eventually, and frankly I don’t want to keep tiptoeing around the idea as if its never going to come up.
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. I don’t mind if he doesn’t, which is why I allow the silence to drag, giving him permission to speak if he wishes or to ignore it entirely.
The rain gets heavier, forcing him to slow down, and I can see his jaw working as he weighs his words.
"We thought she wanted it," he finally says. "Thought she was happy. She said all the right things, did all the right things. Decorated her nest, wore our marks, attended pack dinners. But looking back..."
He trails off, and I wait.
"Looking back, she was performing. Just like those omegas at your book club. Going through the motions because that's whatwas expected, what would keep the peace, what would maintain her status and security."
I frown at the imagination of it all, and how such performative fakeness is somehow justified.
"That must have been horrible," I say softly. "For all of you."
He thinks about it long and hard, and though he tries not to show it, I can see the strain of conviction.
"It was worse for her." His voice is flat, emotionless, but I can hear the pain underneath. "We were so busy congratulating ourselves on having an omega, on being a 'real' pack, that we didn't notice she was drowning until it was too late." He pauses before muttering, “Or maybe I was the one so lost in my bubble of hopeful perfection that I didn’t see the true signs for me and my pack.”
We pull into town, the lights of the shops blurry through the rain-soaked windshield.
The coffee shop is just ahead, warm light spilling from its windows, and I can see several figures already inside.
"I'm not her," I tell him as he pulls into a parking spot, the word a tad sudden but deciding this is the best time and place to emphasize the truth that maybe he’s scared of confronting. "I know you're worried about history repeating itself, but I'm not her. I don't know how to perform that kind of perfection. I can barely figure out which fork to use at dinner."
He turns to look at me fully for the first time since we got in the car.
"I know you're not her," he says quietly yet firmly, before his eyes soften ever so soften as he mutters, "That's what terrifies me."
Before I can ask what he means, he's out of the car, coming around with an umbrella I didn't even know he had.
He holds it over me as I get out, keeping me dry while rain soaks his shoulders.
"You don't have to—" I start.
"Yes, I do," he cuts me off. "What time should I pick you up?"
"Nine? Unless you want to come in, see what all the fuss is about?"
The look he gives me suggests he'd rather have dental surgery without anesthesia.
"I'll be here at nine."
I nod, then impulsively reach up to fix his collar where the rain has made it curl.
He freezes at the touch, and I quickly pull my hand back.
